Page 43 of The Bratva’s Arranged Virgin Bride (Fokin Bratva #8)

“Of course I do,” I said roughly, as she closed her eyes.

It was a battle to hold her tenderly when I still vibrated with rage at seeing what Vissarion had put her through.

Her lip was cut and swollen; there was blood clumping in her hair at the back of her head.

Her clothes were tattered rags, revealing more scratches and bruises all over her body.

It was so much worse in person, and the photos had been bad enough.

Vissarion was knocked out behind us, maybe even dead for all I knew, and I still wanted to beat him some more for what he did.

“Of course I care,” I repeated. “Nat, I—”

Then I realized she hadn’t just closed her eyes out of relief. She was unconscious. I patted her cheek, but there was no response. Terrified that I was too late and that too much damage was inflicted on her, I carefully gathered her close and stood.

“I’ve got to get her to a hospital,” I shouted at Arkadi, who was poking around the perimeter, waiting for our backup to arrive.

“Go,” he told me. “My men will be here soon. I’ll deal with the cleanup.

As focused as I was on Nat, I paused, turning to my brother to give him a look I hoped he’d understand. “If Vissarion is still alive, keep him that way. He’s going to have to pay for this.”

He nodded, and I took off toward the car, speeding down the desolate path toward the closest highway.

My phone told me the nearest hospital was still almost an hour away.

And it didn’t seem like much of a hospital, more of an emergency clinic.

Would they be able to help her, or should I continue to LA?

As I sped along the deserted highway in the dead of night, warring about what would be best for Nat, she woke up, struggling to sit up from where I had her laid out on the backseat.

“Damn it, Nat, be careful. You may have broken bones or internal bleeding.”

She ran her hand through her tangled hair, grimacing as she pressed on her ribs and seemed to take stock of her injuries. When she tried to climb over into the front seat, I shouted, swerving the car onto the shoulder and stopping.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

“I’m fine. I want to sit in the front.”

“You’re not fine. This must be adrenaline or something.”

She laughed. My beautiful, brave wife laughed in my face and continued climbing over the seat. With a growl, I hurried out and pulled her into my arms, carefully settling her into the front seat. Pulling the seatbelt across her chest, I paused.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“I don’t think so. Not too badly, anyway.” She winced, cradling her hand, where there was dried blood in between her fingers and smeared across her raw wrists. “He was going to cut my fingers off and send them to you.”

I seethed, trying not to show it and upset her more. “He’s not going to hurt you ever again,” I promised. “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

She shook her head. “I swear it’s just cuts and bruises. He was saving the best for last and never got to it. Thanks to you.”

“Don’t thank me. I was almost too late.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, putting her palm against my cheek and offering a weak smile. “Just dehydrated and scared out of my wits.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of anymore,” I assured her.

We headed toward home, stopping only at a convenience store for water and snacks to revive her.

As she sipped the water and nibbled on the peanut butter crackers, she did seem to be mostly unhurt.

She explained that Vissarion was just toying with her, trying to make the pictures look as bad as possible.

But then he got more and more unhinged, about to start cutting her into pieces as I arrived.

I had seen many things, heard stories that would curdle most men’s stomachs, but listening to Nat speak so calmly about her ordeal made me sick to my bones.

I prayed Vissarion was still alive and I hadn’t accidentally put him out of his misery during the rescue.

He needed to suffer a lot more than a few hard punches to the face.

Her hand started bleeding again, and she was already wrapped in my jacket, so I took off my shirt so she could wrap the cut with the sleeve. She waggled her eyebrows at me.

“Nice view.”

“You must have a concussion,” I said.

Or she was just that resilient. I could barely keep my eyes off her, and didn’t know how I made it home.

Instead of taking her back to the beach house, where there would still be a hive of activity, I drove her to the house I had been preparing in the hills.

She had dozed off again, only waking up to see where we were heading.

“Where are we going?” she asked, mildly panicking. “Not my father’s house?”

Did she think I would give her up after all that? After anything?

“I have a place that’s not too far from him,” I said. “I’ve been getting it ready. The beach house can be used for weekend getaways. This will be more of a home.”

She smiled and relaxed. “Home,” she sighed. “I like the sound of that.”

Leaning back against the headrest, she was half asleep by the time we pulled up the long, winding drive. She only nestled into my arms as I carried her inside and upstairs to my bedroom, soon to be ours. No more separate rooms. We were starting fresh.

By the time I had the covers over her, she was fast asleep, her tangled, blood-stained hair spread out beside her as she rolled into a ball on her side.

Pulling up a chair, I sat within arm’s reach of her and called my private physician, who was used to late-night calls for strange emergencies.

He said he’d be over right away, and I waited at Nat’s side, finding it hard to blink as I watched her chest rise and fall with each steady breath.

She had to be all right.

The doctor woke her up long enough to do an exam. It was pretty much as she thought, cuts and bruises and a mild concussion from the nasty welt on the back of her head. The doctor agreed to spend the rest of the night and went to camp out downstairs in case anything changed.

Nat looked at me from where she was propped up on a mountain of pillows, her eyelids already growing heavy again.

“You’re being silly to worry,” she said, the words barely out of her mouth before she drifted back to sleep.

“I don’t think I am,” I answered her anyway, settling down beside her to keep vigil as she slept.

I wouldn’t lose her now, not when she was back with me, where she belonged. I barely moved, perfectly content to stay glued to her side, passing the hours and making sure the love of my life stayed with me.